


Bleeding-Heart

by taichara



Category: Tales of the Abyss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 05:36:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7562416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taichara/pseuds/taichara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Asch's last stand, and the whys of it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bleeding-Heart

_Damn it!_

Frustration -- it wasn't all-devouring enough to be anger, not now, not any more -- gnawed at Asch's guts, burned up his spine like a needle-thin flame. Frustration at the damned copy; frustration at himself, at his own weakness, at the relentless march of the clock.

_It ends when I say it ends!_

The chamber was splashed with scarlet, bodies scattered, less in his wake as having crashed against a bloodstained, remorseless stone in human shape. Another wave of fodder was bound to arrive at any moment, and they would fail the way first had, and the second.

One more beat, two: the thudding of booted feet appoached again, the jangle of armour plates, and he drew himself up, flicked his blade from hand to hand as if warming up for sparring, nothing else. The burning in his eyes hid the wounds that dogged him, the greying of vision, the breath that seemed to curdle in his chest. 

He would not suffer pawns and fodder to see him falter.

All else he'd cast away long ago to forge himself into a sword that would end the world. He would not, _would_ not relinquish pride.

_You will not have your way, Van, you bastard._

_You can't make me dance to your tune. And I tore the scales from my idiot copy's eyes, even if I nearly had to do it with a sword in his liver._

Despite himself, he found himself smiling; just a hint, a touch of bitter, sardonic humour as the tiniest bead of scarlet crept to his lips.

_You heard me, idiot._

_Put this whole damned mess back in its proper place. Be the hero, save the world. I'm going to do what I do best, and I'll still best you at it even half in the damned grave._

The bitter edge spiked. That damned replica drew his very self away from him. His life, his essence, his everything drifted away like dust with every breath he forced through stubborn, leaden lungs.

But he would not fail.

Should he have to cleave Van's bastards until nothing but sheer will moved the wreck that was his flesh, he would do it.

Shouting, scrambling broke into his battle meditations; the first unit of troops stormed into view, weaving around the corpses of their fellows, and Asch lunged to bury his blade into the gut of the first. Second and third fell heartbeats later, as he threw himself into their mists and cut them down like a scythe through the harvest

_I will not fall to the likes of you._

This was what he'd re-forged himself to be, tempered in bitterness and loss -- the sword that carried endings in its edge, the grey blanket that covered the land and choked out the life after the caldera spit its flame. 

And he -- _he_ , Asch, and no one else -- chose when those ends would come.

He would bring Van's madness to a screaming halt, and use Van's own pawn to do it. 

Let the replica, let _Luke_ , restore the world while he ate Asch's soul alive. Asch -- Asch the Bloody, washed in crimson, sword flashing, eyes burning -- would still choose his own path. 

He swore, spitting crimson, and would not falter. Not until the way was clear.

_It ends when I say it ends!_


End file.
